The Reapings
District One
Adora held her head high in practiced posture as her bumbling father read aloud the Treaty of Treason, as every mayor in Panem did every year on this special day. Though every fiber in her body burned with illegal indignation, she forced a steely calmness over her perfectly done features, hiding even her clenched right fist.
Her eyes wandered away from her father and met her brother's, who sat dignified among the other officials of District One. He gave her a weak smile, but she looked away. She never thought she'd have to die for him and his reputation. She couldn't exactly hate him, that poor pawn of her father, but simultaneously…
This wasn't ever what she wanted—the Hunger Games hadn't even been in her life trajectory until a few months prior! Alas, the speech was closing; she prepared herself to volunteer, against her own wishes.
Resistance was futile. Why try?
Ven trembled in anticipation. He steadied himself, knowing that eyes were on him at every moment. Against all odds, he had done it. He was the designated volunteer. He could already hear the whispers that would roll through the crowd, or maybe even the disappointed gasp of the thirsty escort when she realized that this year's male tribute was far from the regular order of (1) hunky adonis.
A slap on his back. A friendly nudge. He smiled back at them, but it didn't fully reach his eyes. These were the very same people that had cast him disgusted glances years ago, excluded him from their carefully arranged playdates, whispered "doughboy" and "hippo" in his direction until the thought of going to school filled him with existential dread. How fickle they were! The moment he shot up the training rankings, they started smiling at him. As if they thought he'd fall for their fake niceties.
He would win the Hunger Games. He would win their respect.
He would do it as himself.
District Two
Ilithyia breathed deeply and filled her lungs with festive District Two air. Her face positively shone with an exhilarated glow that somewhat undermined her serious makeup—but who cared? She volunteered for her and her pleasure only.
She glanced over at the boys, where she found Eros Worshire looking back at her with that signature smile of his. He winked at her. She winked back with a laugh. She'd never in a million years expected him to be her district partner. She'd always expected it to be Ahenobarbus, but then again, it was her own fault that he wasn't here, probably sitting in his hospital room cursing the poor nurses that had the terrible luck to attend to him. Oh well. Poor him. He deserved it.
But what a relief that it wasn't that bully or dumb, brooding Aegon! Ilithyia and Eros, District Two's Dynamic Duo for the two-hundred fortieth Hunger Games!
This was going to be fun.
Eros beamed at the guys congratulating him on every side and waved them away with nods of false humility (because no one liked a braggart). All eyes were on him. Sure, he hadn't volunteered yet, but the huge screens set up around the square already broadcasted his and Ilithyia's faces to the entire District. Yet amidst the celebrations, he felt a gentle dread creeping up in his chest.
Eros Worshire. Top performer in his class at the Academy. Designated Male Volunteer for District Two.
Whoops.
He'd tried his best to come in second, the way he always did. It wasn't his fault that Aegon was a dumbass and knocked himself out while they sparred for the coveted volunteer position. But now he was going into the Hunger Games. His happy ending would have to wait.
In the corner of his eye, he noticed Ilithyia Aella's wandering eyes and winked at her. That girl was a juggernaut, and if he was going to come home, he needed to be on her side.
District Three
Ada hated Reaping Day. Never mind the possibility of being called to enter a deathmatch; simply looking over the crowd was enough to cause her face blush red and her gut rumble in anger. On no other day was the inequality throughout the district so evident.
Her eyes met a stranger's. Oh no. The other girl dressed in rags in the seventeen's section looked away quickly, but Ada caught the flash of anger that instantly made her cringe. Of course the girl was angry. The girl had every right to be angry, coming from the impoverished slums and seeing how good some people had it. That was exactly the reality Ada just knew she was born to change.
All she had to do was survive this one Reaping, but it was a mathematical gamble, one that favored her yet fell far out of her laboratory, her realm of control, with chemicals and microbes happily bubbling away in little, contained flasks.
She hated it.
Ace hated Reaping Day. Never mind the possibility of being called to enter a deathmatch; the sight of the Peacekeepers lining the square boiled his blood as he followed the crowd to their pens. On no other day was the Capitol's oppression throughout the district so evident.
Oh, how he hated them! How he wished there was a way to send them packing to whatever district they came from! How the nerves in his arms twinged with a desire to act yet his tightly wound shoulders froze, trapping him in this cage of a body that refused to let him fight, or smile naturally, or just laugh, or even unleash this subjugated scream that bubbled up like molten iron in a metalworker's crucible.
All he could do was walk, continue forward stiffly with robotic motions and his face as stoic as a statue chiseled in stone, just as he'd always done.
He hated it.
District Four
Though summer in District Four was quite hot, the ocean breeze blew unnaturally cold against Azolla's skin and she crossed her arms for warmth. She'd noticed the way people greeted each other on her way in, the way they each other good luck with that self-preserving undertone. I hope your child doesn't get Reaped, but better yours than mine.
A sniffle to her right grabbed her attention as she waited with the other eighteen-year-old females. A head of red hair, neatly combed and decorated with little ribbons. Although Azolla always did her best to pay the Hunger Games as little attention as humanly possible, she recognized the girl as the sister of last year's male tribute, who died in the bloodbath, head split open by the girl from Ten. She found herself moving before she realized it.
"Hey," Azolla said, eyes brimming with empathy.
The other girl hid her tears with her hands. Her only response where the choked sobs that her hands couldn't hide.
"I'm so sorry," Azolla murmured, resting a gentle arm around the girl's shoulders. "I… I can't do anything about it, but I'm here for you. Even if it's just for now."
The girl nearly collapsed in the embrace, drenching Azolla's new dress with tears. But Azolla didn't care. She patted the girl on the back, knowing in her heart a simple thought that the rest of her countrymen would've found ludicrous.
Better she than this girl.
As District Four awaited the beginning of the Reapings, Navarro glared intensely at the stage, at the mentors waiting in the wings, at the escort with her oh-so-stupidly-frilly wig and the polka-dotted dress that made her look like she had leprosy or some equally stupid disease. He'd slug her in the face if she had a chance. The red would match her dress.
Someone brushed past him from behind. He jabbed whoever-it-was real hard and mumbled a curse word underneath his breath, smiling a bit when he heard a wince and the rustlings of heads turning. Their eyes were on him. And not despising him as the stuck-up rich brat—they seriously watched him, with a hint of fear in their eyes; him, a real threat, one to beware of, to fear, to respect.
He met their eyes and smirked, all while a tiny whisper in his heart wondered what it'd be like to look into someone's eyes and see genuine kindness, not fear.
District Five
The Reaping. The day of the year when Electra wished most she would speak. Her peers simply marched obediently into their pens with their heads down and hands neatly folded and shoulders calm, yet she wanted to scream.
Did this whole spectacle not bother anyone else? Or had the Capitol bought out their complacency with promises of being just rich enough to look down on the poorer districts? The crimes of the Capitol demanded retribution and justice, not submissive compliance!
Of course, she remained silent. She held her thoughts in like a boiling vat of cooking oil, the way she always did, knowing that the slightest hint of rebellion on her lips could cause her to disappear in the middle of the night. These ideas were ridiculous idiocy, irrational castles in the sky that she could barely fly to, even in her wildest, most daring dreams.
Yet… what if?
As Kiran walked up to the sign-in table, he straightened his shoulders, puffed up his chest, and lifted his chin, ready to show the world his intensity and—
The Peacekeeper behind the table looked at him. He instantly withered.
"Name?" a cold female voice asked.
"Kiran Malhotra." He cleared his throat, but his voice still croaked. Effin' piece of…
The woman scanned the list and marked a little tick next to his name. "Your hand."
In the name of Snow… He extended his hand, completely steadily without the slightest hint of a tremor. Why would he tremble? It was just—
Blood. The woman pricked his finger. He winced.
A snicker came from behind him as he walked off to his age group. He whirled around and glared at the group of guys, a couple of whom he recognized from school.
"Shut the f— up, you bunch of mother f—s."
A boy snorted. Another chuckled. With every snicker from the bunch of baboons, his bravado dwindled. They couldn't take him seriously.
He wasn't sure if he could either.
District Six
"Welcome one, welcome all, to the Reapings for the 240th Annual Hunger Games!"
Laforza's hand clenched into a twitching fist as the escort babbled on. Oh my! How welcomed she felt! How enjoyable it was to stand in the hot sun and wait for two kids to be called to their deaths! Where would she rather be? Oh right—she'd rather submerge herself in a vat of petroleum than go through another Hunger Games ever again. At least the oils in petroleum would supposedly give her glowing skin.
She kicked a pebble unfortunate enough to sit near her feet. It's brief flight ended when it collided with a well-dressed stranger, who turned back with an unamused glare. Laforza simply rolled her eyes. Rich Girl had nothing to fear; the Reapings were designed to pick on the poor masses, since they were clearly so eager for further suffering and subjugation.
"The female tribute from District Six will be… Laforza Wheeler!"
It must've been the escort's lucky day, 'cause if Laforza had anything remotely sharp in her hands, she knew where she'd stab it.
Through the alcoholic cloud that muddled his mind, Thomas couldn't make out the escort's funny words in her funny accent. She had funny feathers sticking out of her hat too. Funny in almost a beautiful way, how it shimmered and glimmered in the few sun beams that braved their way through the smog cover to kiss the earth of District Six.
But his world wasn't beautiful, not today. He knocked back another deep swing from his bottle, reveling in the burning sensation in his throat that took his mind off last night, with all the yelling and screaming between his partners as their dagger-like words that cut him deeper than any knife ever could.
"I volunteer!" he mumbled, lurching forward so hard that some of the liquor spilled on his shoes. "I… I volun… teer!"
Wait. It had been his name. The realization struck him like a hovercraft and he felt the bile rising in his throat. Oh… kill me now.
District Seven
Liat could've sworn she saw the sun darken the moment she heard her name. The air stood still, so suffocatingly still, pressed against her sweaty neck. Even the birds ceased their chirping as if memorializing the moment when Liat North's life shattered into a million pieces.
Even now, as she looked out over the crowd, she searched the eighteens' pen. It was highly unlikely that one of them would be so selfless as to take her place, but she could hope, couldn't she? Maybe, just maybe, someone would take pity on her. Or maybe someone would be desperate enough to volunteer. Maybe there would be—
Nothing but gut-wrenching silence, just as she expected. District Seven had no reason to send a volunteer to replace a tribute deemed "capable" enough.
She would die. Even with all her training, her odds were small. Without a thought for the cameras, she wiped her eyes and stared defiantly at the escort, who'd moved on to choosing the boy's name. Even if she couldn't win, she would die trying.
"And the male tribute for District Seven is… Pembroke Thompson!"
Adair sighed when a child stepped out of the thirteens' pen. Ah well. It'd been a stroke of horrible luck, pulling the short straw. He had hoped that an older tribute would be reaped, relieving him of his obligation, but now he'd have to volunteer. Was there really any surprise? Considering how at least one young'un was reaped every year, he was sure the Capitol wasn't playing fair…
He smirked in spite of himself. It'd been a long while since he'd found a single person in all of District Seven capable of matching him, let alone outplaying him. In these here Games, he knew the other tributes weren't much of a threat. They were humans, susceptible to manipulation and mind games. The real opponent was the Capitol, and they were rigging the deck.
But so what? Even with a rigged deck, Lady Luck would shine on him again sooner or later. And even if she didn't, he'd make things work out. He always did.
District Eight
Virginia couldn't think as she stood on stage, mind devoid of a single thing that she could grasp to cheer herself up. Her shoulders trembled as the lump hitched in her throat.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.
She squeezed her eyes to still the flood of tears and grit her teeth until she was sure she chipped a tooth, but the tumult of I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die roared in her ear and it streaked down her cheeks and there was no way anyone would want to help her now, not after this. She covered her face and sobbed, but the escort kept talking and—
Ugh, why am I making his life harder for him?
She felt a hand on her shoulder. Jakob? Her heart leapt, but then it instantly sank to the deepest recesses of her stomach. She couldn't blame the escort for trying to help her; this just wasn't him!
Where's Jakob! I need Jakob!
Every step Ellis took towards the Reaping stage felt surreal. He couldn't possibly have been chosen… could he? He heard the crunch of his shoes on gravel and the ringing of the microphone, yet it sounded distant, as if at the end of a distant tunnel. As he shakily stepped up onto the platform, he lifted his head and pulled up the corner of his lip in an attempted smile. The escort immediately shoved the microphone in his face.
"Psst! Say something!"
"I…" He looked to the escort, who beamed at him with anticipation dancing in his eyes, but then he looked past the man and saw Virginia. He instantly knew he needed to snap out of his dreamlike state. He was needed. "I'm Ellis Lowery, and I'm sweet as pie. Now if you don't mind…"
He came up beside the girl and slipped a handkerchief out of his pocket, which she shakily took. As she dabbed her eyes, trying unsuccessfully to rescue the washed-out remains of her makeup, he repressed the rising sense of future dread and forced himself to smile. There would soon come a time to strategize and worry, but that time wasn't now. Now was the time for comfort.
District Nine
"F— you! F— all of you!"
The moment Clarke heard her name, a rocket exploded in her gut and she screamed her curses as loudly as she could until her throat tore and the words shredded into broken screeches but she didn't care. They wouldn't take her alive. She wouldn't let them! They could take their guns and shove them up their—
Unshakable hands latched on her arms and she thrashed and screamed bloody murder and cursed them in every last name that crossed her frazzled mind, but they just wouldn't let go. As they dragged her towards the stage, she stumbled and tried to stand, but her foot caught on a rock and she fell forwards, suspended by monster claws on either side.
Her fire burned low. Her mind filled with the ashes of her fury, the ashes of her fight, the ashes of her dead mom, slaughtered by the Capitol.
She'd burn it down if it was the last thing she did.
Mati shuddered at the girl's vicious screaming, even though he'd braced himself for the inevitable outburst. In his seventeen years, he couldn't remember a single calm Reaping. What was the point? Was it brave to yell profanity? Was it inspiring to claw like a rabid animal? All it did for him was send a shudder down his spine and make him glad he didn't live out there anymore.
He cringed at the disgruntled ripple that rolled over the crowd. More than once in his lifetime, the Reapings had ended up in violent riots that left tens or even hundreds dead. But after he nearly died in the last one, he'd planned out exactly what route he'd take to escape in case of an emergency during the Reapings, just like he planned for hijackings and Peacekeeper raids and thunderstorms and fires and—
"Mati Strye!"
Oh. Oh no. He hadn't prepared for this one.
District Ten
For District Ten.
That's what the government people had said when they spoke with Nevaeh and her papá. They said it was for the benefit of the District, to demonstrate the spirit of sacrifice and defense that her beloved District encapsulated in the case that the Capitol reaped a niño.
They meant they would leave her papá alone, although the kind of drugs he dealt with was most definitely illegal.
The escort calls a name. A rustle is heard in the far back corner of the Reaping square. Of course. A twelve-year-old. Nevaeh considers waiting for the pobrecita to make her way to the stage—set those stinky government people on edge—but she sighs and steps forward. No point in dragging out the inevitable.
"I'm Nevaeh Jimenez," she says. She smiles at the boldness of her own voice. "And I volunteer!"
For la pobrecita. For Papá. For District Ten.
"Zottie Larson!"
Sostonio's breath hitched in his throat. Snot! Of course the Capitol would call a thirteen-year-old! Someone would volunteer, right? Someone always did when a young'un was called—at least he was pretty sure someone always did.
But as the escort called for volunteers, his heart pounded faster and faster, like the rhythmic shakings of maracas that called the dancers to twirl on faster and faster and faster, a breakneck blitz further spurred on by the echoing silence.
"Well, then, if we have no volunteers…" The escort sighed, likely disappointed in a less than stellar showing for District Ten.
Where was the designated volunteer? The one that had agreed to take on this massive responsibility, to protect and defend? Sostonio craned his head and searched his pen, the one next to it, and even the sixteens, which rarely produced a volunteer, but all to no avail. His eyes frantically darted to the stage, where they met Snot's teary ones. He stepped forward without hesitation.
"I volunteer!"
District Eleven
This… was the City. And this was the Reaping. Iggy had only ever had been in the city once before—for her very first Reaping—and she had known immediately that she did not like the crude constructions of wood and metal that disrespected the soft earth which Mother Tree had so generously enriched. But now as she walked towards the stage, one trance-like step at a time, she knew she definitely didn't like the city, not one bit.
And what was she supposed to think about her peers that lined the aisle on either side of her, the ones that stared at her with wide, despairing eyes? She listened and even strained to listen, just like she's always listened to Her, but Mother Tree never responded with gasps and whispers.
The escort squealed when she stepped on stage. "Oh, my! You're a darling, aren't you? Yggdrasil?"
"You can call me Iggy!" she said. After the confusing walk up, it was a relief to see someone with happy eyes. "Am… I doing this right?"
"You're perrrrrrfect!"
Iggy smiled weakly. What would happen to her? What was she doing? Nothing made sense in her head; all this was new. She just desperately hoped that Mother Tree's life could reach her in the Capitol as well.
With every step towards the stage, Scythe's blood turned to ice. He, along with the entire nation, had just seen the way the escort treated that little girl, giggling and squealing as if she were about to play dress-up with Iggy, not send her to her certain death. Despicable beyond redemption.
"Oh, my! You're a fierce one! Scythe?"
He crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the escort in an unusual show of anger. "Could be."
"Ooh la la! How exciting!"
Though certain choice words built up in his throat, he bit his lip and swallowed them all the way back down to his gut. Neither the escort nor her cronies up in the Capital deserved his words. All he had to do was stay calm, the way he always did, no matter how terribly the boys messed up their message runs or how horrible the District Eleven could get in summer.
But calm didn't mean he couldn't be angry. He'd just have to be smart about it. Regular fiery anger destroyed the wielder along with the target, but he had absolutely no intention of being destroyed. Not if he had anything to say about it.
District Twelve
Zirconia dove down the back alley, whipping her head back to make sure Zeph was still on her tail. To her relief, he was—but so was the squad of Peacekeepers behind them. Somehow, the Peacekeepers had anticipated their plot. But there was no time to question things. If they were caught, they'd certainly be executed.
Up ahead, the Town Square rapidly approached, where the Reaping for the 140th Annual Hunger Games was still in process. With Zeph right behind her, she tunneled into the crowd, leaving shouts and curses in her wake.
This wouldn't work. The crowd was too calm. Any movement would be detected, and the Peacekeepers would still catch them.
On stage, the escort proceeded with the ceremony, completely oblivious to the commotion below. "And the female tribute from District Twelve will be…"
Her eyes locked with Zeph as Peacekeeper boots rumbled in the distance, tugging at her ear. He bit his lip, sighed, and nodded. There would be no going back from this, but there was no answer left for them in District Twelve. She pushed herself out from the crowd.
"I volunteer as tribute!"
The Peacekeepers that had been chasing them suddenly halted, as if Zirconia's strong voice had stopped time itself. Zeph paused for a second to catch his breath and then pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
"A volunteer? Oh, you don't appear to be registered! This is new! Do we have protocol for this?"
Zeph ignored the strange looks around him as Zirconia walked down to the stage, her head held high and a spring in her step. He smiled despite the pain that rent his heart within his chest. Zirconia had volunteered. Their lives had irrevocably changed.
"Well… Give us a moment!"
As the escort wobbled off to the side, Zirconia arrived on stage with a gleeful smile. But even from this distance, Zeph saw the tension in her shoulders and rigidity in her arms.
Zirconia picked up the microphone where the escort had left it. "I am Zirconia Eskridge, and I'll be the female tribute for this year's games."
A hush fell over the entire District. Very few could've known the weight that bore down on Zeph's shoulders. This was it. The end of the line. Volunteering meant certain death, but he couldn't allow Zirconia to die alone.
"I suppose it couldn't hurt to allow this one! Volunteers are more entertaining, after all! Now for the male tribute…"
Zeph stepped forward and said the words he knew would seal his fate.
"I volunteer."
A/N And with that, we enter the Pre-Games! I've never tried this recap format before; I'd appreciate critique on how effective it was. Next chapter will be a brief interlude to catch up with Rusk (oh how I've missed you!), and then we'll chugga-chugga-chugga off with the train rides!
Thoughts?
